Grief
by DrKCooper
Summary: Spoilers for season 3. How Joan and Sherlock deal with their grief.


_Disclaimer: All recognizable_ Elementary _characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners including, but not limited to Arthur Conan Doyle and CBS. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this fan fiction story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No financial gain is associated with the publishing of this story. No copyright infringement is intended._

 _Author's Note: We moved on far too quickly from the loss of Kitty and Andrew. It's not just me, right? And clearly if Joan's interaction with Sherlock's father is any indication, there's been a shift between how these two feel about each other. This is my attempt to fill some of that gap. I'm not sure how to address the relapse. Sadness doesn't make for great fanfiction. -dkc_

 _ **Grief**_

They were both grieving in their own way.

Joan's grief over the loss of a man she was ready to end things with could not compare to her guilt over his death. She was why he was dead.

Sherlock's grief over losing his troubled protégé was blunted by the return of Watson to the brownstone. He knew Kitty would be okay in London. He was less certain of his own strength, though having Joan back helped tremendously.

"Sherlock?" her familiar voice pushed aside his inner torment.

"Yes?" he raised an eyebrow when he looked up to see her standing so close without his having been aware of her approach.

"Are you okay?" her concern evident in her tone.

"I was merely reading."

"You looked like you might cry," she said. "And you're staring at that file as if it holds the meaning of human existence."

Sherlock stood and abandoned Joan as he made his way to the kitchen for tea.

"You do know it is rude to walk away when in a conversation?" Joan followed him.

"You were the only one conversing," his shortness was nothing new to Joan.

Since Kitty had left for London, the two of them had spoken very little. Joan had been too lost in her guilt over Andrew to truly support Sherlock in the loss of Kitty. The two losses were not the same, of course, Kitty was alive and for the first time in her life no longer living in fear, but there was now a hole in the man's life that was much greater for him than the hole now suddenly in Joan's own life.

"Have you spoken to Kitty?" Joan took a cup of tea from his outstretched hand.

"Not since her arrival at Heathrow."

Joan looked over her cup at him while considering how to best broach the topic. She opted for the most direct route.

"When did you last attend a meeting?" she spoke calmly.

"If you are afraid my sobriety might be compromised by Kitty's absence in my life, I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, Watson, I have no inclination to partake of any substance that might set back the progress I have made."

He looked at her, really meeting her eyes. Her concern was only partially assuaged by his statement. He knew her well enough to see this.

"Alfredo and I attended a meeting the day before yesterday," he supplied the answer she was looking for.

"Good," she nodded. "If you would like to talk about it…"

When Joan's voice trailed off he realized she was hearing his own words echoed in her voice. He had said this to her about Andrew. He had not stopped worrying about her despite having her close by.

"It isn't as easy as it sounds, is it?" he gave her what was the Sherlock equivalent of a smirk—for him a head tilt and tight lips accompanied by a rigid body.

"No, it certainly isn't.

She sat down at the kitchen table with her mug in hand. She looked in it, searching for something to say to him that wouldn't sound either trite or like a broken record. She came up with nothing.

"When have you known me to cry?" he inquired.

"Hmm?" she looked at him as if she hadn't realized they were having a conversation.

"In there," he gestured to the living room. "You suggested I looked as if I might cry."

She shrugged. There was no sense in looking back at her time with him to point out his most vulnerable moments.

"Have you cried?" he spoke, still firmly rooted in a spot a few feet away.

"Excuse me?" she furrowed her brow in confusion.

"Over Andrew?" he reached for a chair and sat next to her. "Have you properly cried over his loss?"

"How did this conversation go from me noting that you looked distraught to Andrew?" she refused to turn her body to face him directly. He would have to look at her profile from his seat.

"Watson—"

"No, stop. We do not need to further discuss Andrew's death. If you would prefer we not talk about Kitty, I understand," her body was stiff, an indication of how unwilling she was to discuss Andrew.

"You and Kitty have something in common, you know?" he remarked.

When Joan didn't look his way or offer any form of response, he placed his mug on the table and fidgeted with the buttons of his shirt while continuing.

"She came into my life at a time when I was desperate for a fix. Without her appearance in my life, I would have inevitably lost my sobriety to my old friend," he spoke calmly, though with some sentiment. "You came into my life when I was desperate for a life, for a normalcy outside of rehab. I was an addict desperate for anything that didn't remind me every minute of the drug that had so gripped my existence."

Joan found herself overwhelmed with emotion. While she knew this to be true of her earliest encounters with Sherlock, he had never spoke of it in quite this way.

"To have known two people that have so invested in my recovery and sobriety is a gift."

When she finally met his eyes, she could once again see in them whatever it was she saw before that made her question whether he was on the brink of tears. Seeing it in his eyes, she was afraid that feeling might be reflected back to him in her own. Her reasons were slightly different, though.

"I was lost, too, you know?" she met his confused eyes with something bordering on indignation.

"Excuse me?" he leaned back in his chair, a slight gesture of backing away from her.

"When I took you on as a client," she leaned forward to compensate. "I hadn't been a sober companion for long. You were my most complex client."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her description of him. She had only meant that heroin was more complex than alcohol or some of the other addictions her clients had had. She didn't need to explain herself, though. Not to him.

"To stop being a surgeon, something I had spent nearly every moment of my life from eighteen forward working toward, was the greatest loss I have ever felt. _Had_ ever felt," she corrected herself.

"Andrew."

His speaking that single name brought her sadness. She wasn't sad for Andrew, not as Sherlock spoke his name. She was sad that this man before her had no idea what really hurt her.

"No," she should have known his brilliance would get in the way of seeing what was so clear and obvious. "When you went back to London."

The words stung him to the bone. He was as surprised by what she had said as he had ever been by any one thing she had ever shared with him. He felt his fingers twitch. He had never wanted to reach out for her nearly as much as in this moment.

"Joan."

He rarely spoke her first name. In doing so, he provoked a reaction that he wasn't intending—a deep sigh from her. She refused to meet his eyes. She was ashamed of how full of meaning her admission had been and how it toyed with her emotions even now.

"We share responsibility for that loss," she shook her head as if the movement would shake away the guilt she felt for getting involved with Mycroft Holmes.

"No," he was quick to refute her. "I can assure you that I bear that distinction alone."

She was in no mood to argue with him over who did what and why. She slept with his brother. That isn't something that is easily forgivable between two, two what? Partners? Friends? What?

"I am a difficult man."

Her head snapped to attention, looking directly at his sad eyes now. She was very confused by this statement and even more surprised that he would willingly admit to the very peculiarity that made him Sherlock Holmes.

"Your lack of disagreement would wound a lesser man."

This was the levity they both needed. The smile on Joan's face loosened up Sherlock, though his posture in no way reflected it.

They wouldn't continue to beat the dead horse that was her relationship with Mycroft, her abduction and what took Sherlock to London. She wouldn't even mention the fact that he had arrived back in New York City, Kitty in tow, without notifying her of his return.

"I truly hope that Kitty can find a life in London that brings her happiness and contentment," Joan said.

Sherlock nodded.

"She brought me happiness and contentment."

There was the sadness again that Joan had seen on his face when he was reading. It broke her heart.

"I know," Joan placed a hand over his, giving it a gentle squeeze.

For two human beings who had lived in such close proximity, had been partners for some time now, they rarely touched. Sherlock was not the touchy-feely type and Joan respected that.

"You do as well and I shan't forget that."

Joan was dumbfounded. This, too, was unlike Sherlock.

When his thumb wrapped around hers and kept her hand atop his, she took her chance. Her eyes left his then, his fiery stare both too much and too little. She leaned over to him and placed a gentle, sincere kiss to his stubbly cheek. She didn't pull away immediately; allowing the kiss to linger there as his eyes closed and he relaxed into her touch. His posture spoke to how comforting her kiss was.

There was nothing shy or awkward when Joan pulled away. It was as if this was a common occurrence between them.

"You are sweet, Sherlock," Joan spoke, their eyes meeting again.

He offered a slight, humble smile.

"Should we order in?" he asked.

"We seem to be doing a lot of that lately," she released his hand and stood. "I believe this is what they call 'eating our feelings.'"

"If eating our grief is our only course of action, I believe we will be just fine."

He was, obviously, thinking of his own sobriety. Joan caught the undertone of his words and was reminded of how heavily his former heroin use weighed on his mind in times of loss. As a sober companion, she was trained to recognize this, but until she became Sherlock's friend she had never truly appreciated how difficult it must be to not relapse when the universe tilted.

"We will," she said with certainty. "We'll be fine."

- _finis_ -


End file.
